and  Other  Poets 


Life's  Aspiration 


See  page  107 


and  Other  Poets 


BY 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 


With  frontispiece  by 

GEORGE  WOLFE  PLANK 


55 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1916 


959 
Utl 

a 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


THE  QUINN  &  BODEN  CO.  PRESS 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


CD 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 

WITH  ALL  SORTS  OF  FRIENDSHIP,  ADMIRATION  AND 
APOLOGIES    ..."  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN  " 


333775 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

"  PARODY/'  said  someone,  and  it  must  have 
been  G.  K.  Chesterton,  "  is  the  critic's  half- 
holiday."  .  .  "  Far  from  converting  virtue  into 
a  paradox  and  degrading  truth  by  ridicule," 
(I  am  quoting  Isaac  D'Israeli)  "parody  will 
only  strike  at  what  is  chimerical  and  false;  it 
is  not  a  piece  of  buffoonery  so  much  as  a  criti 
cal  exposition."  Casting  about  for  something 
between  an  apology  and  an  air  of  dignity  the 
parodist  usually  fishes  up  phrases  like  the 
foregoing  ones.  Or,  if  he  has  an  educative 
turn  of  mind,  (and  he  generally  has)  he  pre 
faces  his  collection  with  a  disquisition  on  the 
various  forms  and  classes  of  parody;  pointing 
out  the  difference  between  the  mere  burlesque 
of  sound  and  the  subtler  (and  more  critical) 
parody  of  sense.  After  which  the  reader  is 
rather  sharply  told  that  the  latter  form  is  the 
only  one  worth  serious  consideration.  The 
reader  is  also  given  to  understand,  in  a  coy 

7 


8  Prefatory  Note 

and  surprisingly  modest  last  sentence,  that  the 
present  parodist  employs  only  this  more  ele 
vated  and  illuminating  method. 

Having  thus  established  and  betrayed  my 
own  position  I  immediately  disclaim  it.  Hav 
ing  spiked  my  own  guns  I  cannot  very  well 
announce  that  I  have  attempted  to  parody  the 
thoughts,  moods  and  manners  of  the  poets  vic 
timized  rather  than  any  specific  work,  and  that 
in  only  one  case  did  I  have  a  particular  poem 
in  mind.  Neither  can  I  now  lay  claim  to  any 
educative  and  serious  pretensions.  Nor  can 
I  go  on  to  say  anything  about  the  forms  and 
functions  of  parody;  pointing  out  the  differ 
ence  between  the  mere  burlesque  of  sound 
and  the  subtler  (and  more  critical)  parody  of 
sense.  I  will  add  however,  that  throughout 
"  this  slender  sheaf  of  verse,"  (I  quote  from 
Felicia  Hemans,  The  Bookman  and  the  Pub 
lishers'  Fall  Catalogue)  the  latter  form  has 
been  given  serious  consideration,  and  that  the 
present  parodist  has  employed  only  this  more 
elevated  and  illuminating  method. 

L.  U. 

NEW  YORK,  1915. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
7 

THE  BANQUET  OF  THE  BARDS 

/ 

I    JOHN  MASEFIELD  . 

15 

II     EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON     . 

19- 

Ill     WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS     . 

. 

2O 

IV     ROBERT  FROST 

22- 

V     WALTER  DE  LA  MARE    . 

26 

VI     VACHEL  LINDSAY  .    I   . 

28 

VI  I     LASCELLES  AB_ERCROMBIE 

34 

VIII     EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS    . 

36 

IX    RALPH  HODGSON    . 

39 

X     STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

4i 

XI     OWEN  SEAMAN 

43 

XII     GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON     . 

46 

XIII     JAMES  OPPENIIEIM        .       . 

48 

XIV    WILLIAM  WATSON        .       . 

51 

XV    WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET  . 

52 

XVI      EZRA  .P-aum  •          •          •          '          ' 

55 

XVII     SARA  TEASDALE      . 

58 

9 

10 


Contents 


XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 

XXIV 

XXV 

XXVI 

XXVII 


FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS    . 

AMY  LOWELL  . 

W.  H.  DAVIES       .       . 

RUDYARD  KIPLING  . 
ROBERT  CARLTON  BROWN 


JOHN  HALL  WHEELQOL 
HARRY  GRAHAM    . 
ALFRED  NOYES 
AUSTIN  DOBSON     . 
WITTER  BYNNER  . 


59 

64 
66 
69 

72 

74 
76 

78 


ATTEMPTED  AFFINITIES 

I     HEINRICH     HEINE    AND    CLINTON 
SCOLLARD        

II    ANDREW  LANG  AND  OSCAR  WILDE  . 

III  P.    B.     SHELLEY    AND    LAURENCE 

HOPE        .  .       87 

IV  HERRICK  AND  HORACE      .  .       89 

V    ROBERT    BROWNING    AND    AUSTIN 

DOBSON     .  91 

VI    A.  C.  SWINBURNE  AND  F.  LOCKER- 

LAMPSON  •       93 

VII    JOHN  KEATS  AND  MADISON  CAWEIN      95 


Contents  1 1 


PAGE 


VIII    W.     E.     HENLEY    AND    FRANQOIS 

VILLON 98 

IX    E.  A.  POE  AND  THE  PRE-RAPHAEL 
ITES    .                   .....  101 

X    BEN  JONSON  AND  HARRY  B.  SMITH  103 

PIERIAN  HANDSPRINGS 

LIFE'S  ASPIRATION  .       .       .       .       .       .107 

THE  DRAMA  OF  SUMMER      .       .  .     .       .  108 

" — BUT  IT  WAS  FIRST  TO  FADE  AWAY  "     .  HO 

THE  SEASON'S  ROUND,  OR  FROM  COURT  TO 

COURT H2 

INSCRUTABILIA 114 

HAMMOCK  LITERATURE         .       .       .       .  116 
RONDEAU  .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .118 

FRUSTRATE 119 

NOCTURNE       *              .  121 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  most  of  the 
verses  included  in  this  volume,  the  author  thanks 
The  Century  Company,  The  Smart  Set,  Life,  The 
New  York  Call,  and  The  New  York  Tribune. 

Thanks  are  also  due  to  The  Century  Magazine 
for  permission  to  reproduce  the  frontispiece, 
copyright  by  The  Century  Company. 


THE  BANQUET  OF  THE  BARDS 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Pressed  for  a  Narrative,  Tells  the  True  Story 
of  Tom,  Tom,  the  Piper's  Son. 

THOMAS,  the  vagrant  piper's  son, 
Was  fourteen  when  he  took  to  fun; 
He  was  the  eighth  of  a  bewilderin' 
Family  of  eleven  children. 
Mary,  the  first  of  all  the  lot, 
Was  married  to  a  drunken  sot; 
And  Clement,  second  on  the  list, 
Fell  off  the  roof  and  was  never  missed. 
Susan  and  little  Goldilocks 
Were  carried  off  by  the  chicken-pox, 
And  Franky  went — though  I  can't  recall 
Whatever  happened  to  him  at  all. 
The  same  with  the  next  one,  black-eyed  Jim ; 
Nobody  knew  what  happened  to  him. 
And  Nell  went  bad — she  broke  the  laws 
And    shamed    her    folks    on    account    of    a 
'Cause1; 

15 


1 6  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

And  the  last  they  saw  of  her,  her  wrists 
Were  tied  to  some  other  suffragists'. 
Thomas  was  next — and  he's  still  alive 
The  only  one  of  them  all  to  thrive. 
The  rest  just  petered  out  somehow — 
At  least,  nobody  hears  of  them  now. 

Now  Tom,  as  I  said  when  I'd  begun, 
Was  fourteen  when  he  took  to  fun. 
Wine  was  the  stuff  he  loved  to  swim  in ; 
He  lied  and  fought  and  went  with  women. 
He  scattered  oaths,  as  one  flings  bounties, 
The  dirtiest  dog  in  seven  counties. 

One  morning  when  the  sun  was  high 
And  larks  were  cleaving  the  blue  sky, 
Singing  as  though  their  hearts  would  break 
With  April's  keen  and  happy  ache, 
Thomas  went  walking,  rather  warm, 
Beside  old  Gaffer  Hubbard's  farm. 
He  saw  that  wintry  days  were  over 
And  bees  were  out  among  the  clover. 
Earth  stretched  its  legs  out  in  the  sun; 
Now  that  the  spring  was  well  begun, 


John  Masefield  17 

^Heaven  itself  grew  bland  and  fat. 
So  Thomas  loafed  a  while  and  spat, 
And  thought  about  his  many  follies — 
Yonder  the  gang  was  tipping  trollies. 
The  sight  made  Tom's  red  blood  run  quicker 
Than  whisky,  beer  or  any  liquor. 
"  By  cripes,"  he  said,  "  that's  what  I  need; 
'Twill  make  a  man  of  me  indeed. 
Why  should  I  be  a  drunken  slob 
When  there's  Salvation  in  a  job ! " 
He  started  up — when  lo,  behind  him, 
As  though  it  sought  to  maim  and  blind  him, 
A  savage  pig  sprang  straight  against  him. 
At  first  Tom  kicked  and  fought  and  fenced 

him, 

And  then  he  fell.    But  as  they  rolled 
Tom  took  a  tight  and  desperate  hold 
And  thought  the  bloody  fight  was  over. 
"  Here  is  one  pig  that's  not  in  clover — 
To-night  I'll  have  you  in  my  cupboard." 
Who  should  come  up  but  Gaffer  Hubbard. 
"  Leggo  that  pig." 

"What  for?"  says  Tom. 
"  It's  mine,  you  lousy,  thieving  bum." 


1 8  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

"  It  ain't." 

"  It  is." 

"Clear  out!" 

"  We'll  see." 
"Til  fix  'ee!" 

"  Better  let  me  be." 
With  that  the  farmer  turned  again 
And  called  out  half  a  dozen  men. 
Up  they  came  running.    "  Here,"  said  he, 
"  Here  is  a  pig  belongs  to  me — 
But  ye  can  have  it  all  for  eating 
If  you  will  give  this  tramp  a  beating." 
"  Hurroo !  "  they  shouted  in  high  feather, 
And  jumped  on  Thomas  all  together. 
So  the  pig  was  eat,  and  Tom  was  beat; 
And  Tom  went  roaring  down  the  street! 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

Tells  What  He  Knew  of  Simple  Simon. 

WHAT  does  it  matter — who  are  we  to  say 

How  much  is  clear  and  how  much  there  must  be 

Behind  his  mystical  directness — see, 

He  left  us  smiling,  and  a  bit  astray. 

Yet  there  were  times  when  Simon  would  convey 

A  cryptic  sharpness,   etched  with  something 

free; 

For  he  was  touched  with  fire  and  prophecy, 
And    we    who    scarcely    knew    him,    mourn 

him.     ...     Eh? 

I'll  say  this  much  for  Simon :    If  his  ghost 
Has  half  the  life  of  many  men,  or  most, 
He  will  not  rest  in  the  ophidian  night. 
He  will  come  back  and  storm  the  western  gate, 
Scorning    such   lesser   things    as    Death    and 

Fate.     .     .     . 
Well,  there  is  that  side,  too.  .   .   .  You  may  be 

right. 

19 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

Gives  a  Keltic  Version  of  Three  Wise  Men 
of  Gotham. 

DOWN  by  the  clashing  waters  the  three  wise 

men  did  go, 
And  there  they  cut  a  hazel  wand  and  laid  it 

on  the  snow. 
They  plucked  the  apples  of  the  sun  from  many 

a  cedar  tree, 
And  heard  the  white  hound  calling — and  thus 

they  put  to  sea. 

The  Shadowy  Horses  of  the  wind  followed 

the  Hornless  Deer. 
The   reeds   were    full   of    silver   sounds,   the 

waters  full  of  fear; 
The  Rose  put  forth  its  thorny  feet  and  danced 

to  an  old  tune, 
And  in  the  grass  the  Purple  Pig  bayed  at  the 

whimpering  moon. 

20 


William  Butler  Yeats  21 

And  I  shall  always  hear  it,  that  white  and 

silent  song; 
And  I  shall  cut  a  hazel  wand  and  carry  it 

along; 
And  I  shall  cast  it  over  the  waves  and  let  it 

find  the  track 
Of  those  who  went  to  sea  in  a  bowl  and  never 

once  turned  back. 


ROBERT  FROST 
Relates  The  Death  of  the 


THERE  were  two  of  us  left  in  the  berry-patch; 
Bryan    O'Lin   and   Jack   had   gone   to   Nor 

wich.  — 

They  called  him  Jack  a'  Nory,  half  in  fun 
And  half  because  it  seemed  to  anger  him.  — 
So  there  we  stood  and  let  the  berries  go, 
Talking  of  men  we  knew  and  had  forgotten. 
A  sprawling,  humpbacked  mountain  frowned 

on  us 

And  blotted  out  a  smouldering  sunset  cloud 
That  broke  in  fiery  ashes.     "  Well,"  he  said, 
"Old  Adam  Brown  is  dead  and  gone;  you'll 

never 

See  him  any  more.     He  used  to  wear 
A  long,  brown  coat  that  buttoned  down  be 

fore. 
That's  all  I  ever  knew  of  him;  I  guess  that's 

all 

22 


Robert  Frost  23 

That  anyone  remembers.     Eh?  "  he  said, 
And  then,  without  a  pause  to  let  me  answer, 
He  went  right  on. 

"  How  about  Dr.  Foster?  " 
"  Well,  how  about  him  ?  "  I  managed  to  reply. 
He  glared  at  me  for  having  interrupted. 
And   stopped   to   pick  his   words   before   he 

spoke; 

Like  one  who  turns  all  personal  remarks 
Into  a  general  survey  of  the  world. 
Choosing  his  phrases  with  a  finicky  care 
So  they  might  fit  some  vague  opinions, 
Taken,  third-hand,  from  last  year's  New  York 

Times 

And  jumbled  all  together  into  a  thing 
He  thought  was  his  philosophy. 

"  Never  mind; 

There's  more  in  Foster  than  you'd  understand. 
But,"  he  continued,  darkly  as  before, 
"  What  do  you  make  of  Solomon  Grundy's 

case? 

You  know  the  gossip  when  he  first  came  here. 
Folks  said  he'd  gone  to  smash  in  Lunenburg, 
And  four  years  in  the  State  Asylum  here 


24  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

Had  almost  finished  him.  It  was  Sanders'  job 
That  put  new  life  in  him.  A  clear,  cool  day; 
The  second  Monday  in  July  it  was. 

on  a  Monday,'  that  is  what  they  said. 
Remember  the  next  few  days?     I  guess  you 

don't; 
That  was  before  your  time.     Well,  Tuesday 

night 
He  said  he'd  go  to  church;  and  just  before 

the  prayer 
He  blurts  right  out,  '  I've  come  here  to  get 

christened. 

If  I  am  going  to  have  a  brand  new  life 
I'll  have  a  new  name,  too.'    Well,  sure  enough 
They  christened  him,  though  I've   forgotten 

what ; 

And  Etta  Stark,  (you  know,  the  pastor's  girl) 
Her  head  upset  by  what  she  called  romance, 
She  went  and  married  him  on  Wednesday 

noon. 

Thursday  the  sun  or  something  in  the  air 
Got  in  his  blood  and  right  off  he  took  sick. 
Friday  the  thing  got  worse,  and  so  did  he; 
And  Saturday  at  four  o'clock  he  died. 


Robert  Frost  25 

Buried  on  Sunday  with  the  town  decked  out 
As  if  it  was  a  circus-day.    And  not  a  soul 
Knew  why  they  went  or  what  he  meant  to 

them 
Or  what  he  died  of.     What  would  be  your 

guess?" 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  he, 
Just  coming  from  a  sedentary  life, 
Felt  a  great  wave  of  energy  released, 
And  tried  to  crowd  too  much  in  one  short 

week. 
The  laws  of  physics  teach — " 

"  No,  not  at  all. 
He  never  knew  'em.     He  was  just  tired,  "  he 

said. 


WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

Tells  His  Listeners  About  Jack  and  Jill. 

UP  to  the  top  of  the  haunted  turf 
They  climbed  on  the  moonlit  hill. 

Not  a  leaf  rustled  in  the  underbrush; 
The  listening  air  was  still. 

And  only  the  noise  of  the  water  pail 
As  it  struck  on  a  jutting  stone, 

Clattered  and  jarred  against  the  silence 
As  the  two  trod  on  alone. 

. 

Up  to  the  moonlit  crest  they  went; 
And,  though  not  a  word  would  they 

say, 
Their    thoughts    outnumbered    a    poet's 

love-songs 

In  the  first  green  weeks  of  May. 
26 


Walter  De  la  Mare  27 

The  stealthy  shadows  crept  closer, 

They   clutched   at   the   hem    of   Jill's 
gown; 

And  there  at  the  very  top  she  stumbled, 
And  Jack  came  shuddering  down. 

Their  cries  rang  out  against  the  stillness, 

Pitiful  and  high  and  thin. 
And  the  echoes  edged  back  still  further 

As  the  silence  gathered  them  in. 


VACHEL  LINDSAY 

Borrows  a  Megaphone  and  Chants  The 
Glorious  Fourth. 


I 

[Very  fast  and  explosively] 
Bang! 

And  the  dawn 
Burst  madly  on 

The  world  like  a  cosmic  cannon-cracker. 
And  the  great  cloud-pack 
Began  to  crack 

Like  a  stack  of  black  and  crackling  lac 
quer. 

Bang  -  bang  -  bang  -  bang  -  BANG! 
BANG! 

The  echoes  crashed, 
The  echoes  smashed, 
The  echoes  flashed 
And  dashed  abashed 
28 


Fachel  Lindsay  29 

Out  of  the  city  and  never  stopped. 

And  a  thousand  small  boys  gayly 
dropped 

Paper  torpedoes 

Like  outworn  credos. 

And  under  the  tin-cans, 

Sputtering  within  cans, 

The  fire-crackers  puttered  as  they  pop- 
pop-popped  : 

"  Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled 
peppers; 

"Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pickled 
peppers— 

Bang—  bang  -  bang  -  bang  -  BANG! 

Pop.    ... 


[Softer,  but  vibrantly;  the  'a'  sounds  very 
brassy.] 

Then  I  heard  the  battle, 
Then  I  saw  the  flare; 
Then  I  heard  the  muskets  rattle 
Through  the  shuddering  air. 


3<3  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

[With  a  heavily  accented  rhythm;  very  so 
norously.] 

Gone   were   the   urchins   and   the   city- 
streets; 
Gone  were  the  merchants  and  the  snares 

and  cheats. 
Lo,  from  the  mist  of  more  than  six  score 

years, 

Rose  the  thunder  of  a  nation's  cheers; 
[Very  oratorically.] 

Boys  and  farmers  shook  the  old  world's 

pride 

And  a  thousand  Washingtons  went  forth 
and  died. 


II 


[With  increasing  speed  and  a  large  orchestra; 
re-inforced  by  a  wind-machine,  sixteen 
cymbals  and  extra  brasses.] 

ssssSSHHhh 

Now  the  light  goes 

And  suddenly  there 


Vachel  Lindsay  31 

The  dark  earth  glows 

Transfigured  and  fair, 

As  the  first  roman-candles  leap  in  the  air. 

And  now  the  first 

Great  flower-pots  burst 

And   the   pin-wheel   whirls   like   a   fiery 

sprocket; 
And   lo,    like   a   bolt   released   from   its 

socket, 

Trailing  its  fires 
Like  fierce  desires, 
On-on-upward  goes  the  first  sky-rocket. 

[With  a  sustained  hissing  through  the  teeth.] 
Siss-siss-ssscreaming  through  the  startled 

skies, 

Siss-siss-ssspilling  stars  before  it  dies. 
Siss—boom  —  ak.   .    .    . 
ssssSHhh.     .     *     . 
A-a-h.    ......... 

[With  even  greater  fervor,  if  possible.] 
Then  I  saw  a  people, 
Then  I  heard  a  shout, 


32  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

While  from  hearth  and  steeple 

All  the  bells  rang  out. 
[In  a  ringing  voice,  like  a  set  of  chimes.] 

Heard  the  loud  bells,  proud  bells,  spire- 
bells, 

Heard  the  call  bells,  hall-bells,  fire-bells, 

Gay    bells,    sleigh-bells,    night    and    day 
bells; 

Singing  there  and  swinging  there  and  all 
together  ringing  there : 

"Ding-dong  -  clangaranga  -  boom,  boom- 
ah. 

Ding-dong  -  clangaranga  -  boom,     boom- 
ah; 

Rejoice,  oh  people,  ye  shall  live  and  be 

Free  and  equal  in  a  land  made  free !  " 

WHAT? 

"  Well,  almost  equal — almost  free. 
Fear  no  more  from  tyranny, 
But  with  loud  democracy 
While  the  starry  symbol  waves 
In  a  land  of  liberty, 
Yankees  never  shall  be  slaves !  " 


Fachel  Lindsay  ^3 

Bang,  bang;  ding-dong — boom,  boom-ah; 
Clangaranga,  clangaranga  -  sis-boom-bah. 
Bang  -  Bang  -  bang  -  bang  -  BANG! 

Ssshh 

Pop.  .  .  .  Pop.  .  .  .  Pop.  .  .  . 
Bah.  ! 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE 

Eulogizes  Humpty  Dumpty. 

UPON  the  wall,  frowned  on  by  envious  stars, 
He  sat,  secure  above  the  lurching  world. 
The  shrill,  sweet  business  of  the  venturous  day 
Flowed  at  his   feet  and,   sweeping   forward, 

sang. 

Over  his  head  the  lavish  heavens  spread 
Sunset  and  sun,  twilight  and  burning  cloud ; 
And  every  radiant  and  launching  wind, 
Bore  him  cool  pleasures  on  its  smooth,  blue 

back. 

And  yellow  morning,  slipping  over  the  hills, 
Shedding  her  cloak  of  dawn,  reached  out  her 

hands 
And  clasped  him  first  of  all  things. 

Now  he  lies, 

Fallen,  irrevocably  ruined,  here. 
He,  who  was  once  as  keen  and  tuned  for  joy 
As  harps  made  ready  for  a  hero's  welcome, 

34 


Lascelles  Abercrombie  35 

Or  girls  in  April  trembling  against  love. 

There  are  no  kings,  and  no  king's  cunning 
horses 

Can  place  him  back  upon  his  excellent  emi 
nence  ; 

Not  all  the  workmen  from  the  shops  of 
Heaven 

Can  re-establish  him  or  send  the  blood 

Thrilling  with  insolent  music  through  his 
veins. 

Deaf  to  the  trumpeting  winds  and  seas  he  lies. 

Yet  in  this  brave  and  silent  unconcern 

He  shall  command  a  rapt,  exulting  reverence; 

Quiet  and  awe  shall  blaze  about  his  head, 

Kindling  a  glory  in  our  darkened  lives. 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

Adds  a  Tombstone   from   The  East  River 
Anthology. 

MAURICE  VERNON 

I  WAS  just  sixteen, 

In  the  queer  twisting  of  a  delayed  adolescence, 

When  I  came  to  New  York; 

To  study  the  classics,  as  my  mother  said. 

And,   according  to  my   father,  to  become  a 

man. 

I  liked  the  prep,  school  I  attended- 
It  was  such  a  pleasant  place  to  get  away  from. 
Often  I  neglected  Terence  for  the  tango, 
Or  Livy  for  Lillian  Lorraine. 
I  was  just  learning  to  wear  my  dinner-jacket 
In  that  "  carefully  careless  "  manner  indorsed 

by  Vogue, 

When  my  father  died  bankrupt; 
Throwing  me  upon  my  own  resources. 
36 


Edgar  Lee  Masters  37 

Then  I  found  I  hadn't  any. 

So,  knowing  how  to  use  neither  my  hands  nor 

my  brain, 

I  remembered  my  feet 
And  became  a  chorus  man. 
For  years  I  was  with  Ziegfeld  and  K.  and  E. 
Then  the  dance-craze  came  and  swept  me  to 

the  heights. 

I  became  a  teacher  to  the  most  exclusive — 
My  name  was  in  electric  lights  six  feet  high. 
The  clippings  I  collected,  placed  end  to  end, 
Would  have  reached  from  Dantzig  to  Wal- 

singham  and  back. 
Then  one  night  I  turned  my  ankle. 
When  I  was  able  to  get  up  again 
The  public  had  flocked  to  another  favorite 
So  I  entered  an  Endurance  Dancing  Carnival 
And  waltzed  myself  to  death. 

There  is  a  great,  saintly-looking  fellow  here 

Whom  some  call  Vitus. 

And  many  dervishes 

And  a  fine  sultry-eyed  girl 

By  the  curious  name  of  Miriam. 


38  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

But  most  of  all  we  love  to  watch  a  certain 

princess; 

Her  veils  uncoil  like  seven  serpents 
And  she  carries  a  dark  head  on  a  silver  platter. 
She  dances  to  it  forever. 


RALPH  HODGSON 

Rides    a    Lyrical    Cock-Horse    to    Banbury 
Cross. 

LITTLE  Old  Lady, 

Stop  and  come  here; 
Pause  in  the  heyday 

Of  your  career. 
Put  up  your  rings  and  bells, 

Cover  your  toes; 
Here  is  a  music 

That  nobody  knows. 

Here,  with  the  leafy  throngs, 
You  shall  learn  all  the  songs 
Chanted  by  toads  and  trees; 
And  the  far  melodies 
Sung  by  the  gypsy  moon. 
You  shall  hear  every  tune 
Waken  that  ever  was 
Murmured  within  the  grass. 

39 


4O  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

Secrets  shall  rise  and  float 
Out  of  the  linnet's  throat; 
And  every  lily's  bell 
Shall  yield  its  miracle. 
You  shall  know  all  the  fair 
Import  of  every  air; 
Even  the  half-formed  wish 
Blown  by  the  dreaming  fish. 

If  you  will  stay  with  me 

This  shall  be  so; 
You  shall  hear  music 

Wherever  you  go. 
Here  where  it's  shady 

Naught  hurries  past. 
Life,  you  Old  Lady, 

Why  go  so  fast? 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

Takes  Old  King  Cole  on   a   Sedate  Stroll 
Through  Bulfmch's  Mythology. 

HE  lived,  an  ancient  and  senescent  king, 
Long  after  Jupiter  had  loosed  his  bolts; 
After  gray  Dis  had  locked  his  awful  doors 
And  high  Olympus  crumbled  into  dust. 
Merry  he  was,  a  blithe  and  genial  soul; 
Happy  as  Dionysos  and  as  fond 
Of  games  and  dances  as  that  smiling  god. 
Often  he  called,  full  loudly,  for  his  bowl, 
A  bowl  more  vast  than  ever  Bacchus  owned; 
Or  e'er  Silenus  dipped  into  and  held 
For  tipsy  Nymphs  or  Thyiades  to  quaff. 
Then  called  he  for  his  pipe — not  for  the  reed 
Fashioned  by  Pan  to  ease  his  futile  love 
Or  Syrinx  trembling  at  the  river-bank; 
Not  for  the  simple  pipe  that  Paris  played 
When  he  was  shepherding  on  Ida's  hill; 
41 


42  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

But  such  a  pipe  that  flamed  and  smoked  as 

though 
'Twere  Ilium  that  burned. 

And  fiddlers  three 

He  bellowed  for — musicians  bland  of  touch 
As  Orpheus  when  he  swept  his  singing  lute 
Amid  the  ancient  silences  and  stars; 
Or  Marsyas  when  he  brought  the  roseate  blush 
To  Fair  Aurora's  cheeks,  and  dreamy  birds 
Amid  the  boundless  blue  sang  sweeter  than 
The  Muses  choiring  on  Parnassus'  slope. 
Thus  he  sat,  bosomed  in  olympian  calm, 
And  drank  a  mirth  deep  as  Pierian  founts; 
Till  laughter  touched  the  pity  of  the  Fates, 
And  Grief  sank  weeping  in  the  stygian  night. 


Establishes  the  Entente  Cordiale  by  Reciting 

The  Singular  Stupidity  of  J.  Spratt, 

Esq.,   in   the    Manner   of   Guy 

Wetmore  Carryl. 

OF  all  the  mismated  pairs  ever  created 
The  worst  of  the  lot  were  the  Spratts. 

Their  life  was  a  series  of  quibbles  and  queries 
And  quarrels  and  squabbles  and  spats. 

They  argued  at  breakfast,  they  argued  at  tea, 

And  they  argued   from  midnight  to  quarter 
past  three. 

The  family  Spratt-head  was  rather  a  fat-head, 

And  a  bellicose  body  to  boot. 
He  was  selfish  and  priggish  and  worse,  he  was 

piggish— 

A  regular  beast  of  a  brute. 
At  table  his  acts  were  incredibly  mean; 
He  gave  his  wife  fat — and  he  gobbled  the 
lean! 

43 


44  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

What's  more,  she  was  censured  whenever  she 

ventured 
To  dare  to  object  to  her  fare; 

He  said  "  It  ain't  tasteful,  but  we  can't  be 

wasteful; 
And  someone  must  eat  what  is  there ! " 

But  his  coarseness  exceeded  all  bounds  of  con 
trol 

When  he  laughed  at  her  Art  and  the  State  of 
her  Soul. 

So  what  with  his  jeering  and  fleering  and 

sneering, 

He  plagued  her  from  dawn  until  dark. 
He  bellowed  "  I'll  teach  ye  to  read  Shaw  and 

Nietzsche  " — 
And  he  was  as  bad  as  his  bark. 

"  The  place   for  a  woman "  he'd  start, 

very  glib.      .     . 
And  so  on,  for  two  or  three  hours  ad  lib. 


So  very  malignant  became  his  indignant 
Remarks  about  "  Culture  "  and  "  Cranks," 


Owen  Seaman  45 

That  at  last  she  revolted.     She  up  and  she 

bolted 

And  entered  the  militant  ranks.     .     . 
When  she  died,  after  breaking  nine-tenths  of 

the  laws, 
She  left  all   her   money  and   jewels   to  the 

Cause ! 

And  THE  MORAL  is  this  (though  a  bit  ab 
struse)  : 

What's  sauce  for  a  more  or  less  proper  goose, 
When  it  rouses  the  violent,  feminine  dander, 
Is  apt  to  be  sauce  for  the  propaganda. 


GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 
Rises  to  the  Toast  of  "  Coffee.'1 


STRONG  wine  it  is  a  mocker;  strong  wine  it  is 

a  beast. 
It  grips  you  when  it  starts  to  rise;  it  is  the 

Fabled  Yeast. 
You  should  not  offer  ale  or  beer  from  hops 

that  are  freshly  picked, 
Nor  even  Benedictine  to  tempt  a  benedict. 
For  wine  has  a  spell  like  the  lure  of  hell,  and 

the  devil  has  mixed  the  brew; 
And  the  friends  of  ale  are  a  sort  of  a  pale  and 

weary  and  witless  crew; 
And  the  taste  of  beer  is  a  sort  of  a  queer  and 

undecided  brown — 
But,  comrades,  I  give  you  coffee — drink  it  up, 

drink  it  down. 
With  a  fol-de-rol-dol  and  a  fol-de-rol-dee, 

etc.     .     . 

46 


Gilbert  K.  Chesterton  47 

II 

Oh,  cocoa's  the  drink  for  an  elderly  don  who 

lives  with  an  elderly  niece; 
And  tea  is  the  drink  for  studios  and  loud  and 

violent  peace — 
And  brandy's  the  drink  that  spoils  the  clothes 

when  the  bottle  breaks  in  the  trunk. 
But  coffee's  the  drink  that  is  drunken  by  men 

who  will  never  be  drunk. 
So,  gentlemen,  up  with  the  festive  cup,  where 

Mocha  and  Java  unite; 
It  clears  the  head  when  things  are  said  too 

brilliant  to  be  bright! 
It  keeps  the  stars  from  the  golden  bars  and 

the  lips  of  the  tipsy  town. 
So  here's  to  strong,  black  coffee — drink  it  up, 

drink  it  down. 
With  a  fol-de-rol-dol  and  a  fol-de-rol-dee, 

etc. 


JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

Rises  with  a  Psycho-Analytic  E^gression  and 

Stars. 


I 

I  AM  chained  with  the  fetters  of  love 

I  can  never  escape. 

Like  a  slave  who  scarcely  dares  dream  of  his 
freedom 

I  am  beaten  and  bound. 

And  lo,  in  the  fetters  of  love,  I  can  only  strug 
gle  and  die. 

Save  me,  ye  confident  stars; 

Save  me,  oh  God-yeasted  life. 

Folded  in  the  black  wings  of  night ;  bathed  in 

the  fires  of  creation, 
Tasting  the  dark  brew  of  the  elements, 
I  drink  infinity,  as  a  child  at  the  breast  of  its 

mother. 


James  Oppenheim  49 

II 

The   little   earth   rolls  in  the   womb   of   the 

skies — 
Next  door  a  baby  was  born,  it  cried  at  its 

birth. 

Its  mother  and  father  wept  at  its  coming; 
They  were  too  tired  to  hope;  even  too  tired 

to  die.     .     . 
She  had  the  soul  of  a  dancer — she  crawled  and 

stumbled  through  life; 
He  had  the  soul  of  a  leader — they  made  him 

a  slave. 
Lifeless  they  rose  to  their  work,  lifeless  they 

came  to  their  bed; 
Stumbling,  like  all  of  us  dead,  to  a  quieter 

death. 
Next  door  a  baby  was  born — it  cried  at  its 

birth.     .     ,v 

I  shall  not  be  enslaved;  I  shall  tear  myself 

free! 
Oh,   the   conquering  urge   of   the  unleashed 

libido 


50  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

Spilling  the  suns  in  their  courses  and  spurring 
the  world. 

Oh  Nietzsche,  Whitman,  Havelock  Ellis,  Lin 
coln,  Freud  and  Jung — 

Help  me  to  cast  off  these  wrappers  of  custom 
and  prohibition, 

Tear  down  the  barriers  of  reticence. 

Let  me  outgrow  these  swaddling-clothes  of 
sex — 

Let  me  stand,  facing  the  candid  gaze  of  an 
eternal  dawn, 

Clad  in  the  dazzling  splendor  of  my  awakened 
Self. 


WILLIAM  WATSON 

After   a   Titanic  Struggle,   Gives   Birth  to 
An  Epigram. 

WHEN  royal  Love  designs  to  visit  Man 
He  dons  his  purple  robes,  his  crown  of  fire; 

And,  with  a  treasure-laden  caravan, 

He  smiles  and  goes — accompanied  by  De 
sire. 

But,  when  Love  designs  to  come  to  Woman, 

he 
Puts   off   his   royal  vestments,   leaves   his 

throne; 

And  with  nor  pride  nor  pompous  pageantry, 
He  goes — so  every  woman  says, — alone. 


WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 

Sings  The  Slave  Trader's  Chanty. 


ALL  the  way  to  Guadaloupe,  around  the  horn 

and  back  again, 
Shores  that  seem  a  dusky  dream  of  ebony 

and  spice; 
Shifting  of  our  cargoes  there  and  out  upon 

the  track  again, 
Loaded  down  with  black  and  brown  and 

magic  merchandise. 
Isfahan  and  Hindustan,  we  leave  'em  all  in 

peace  again. 
Up  the  straits  and  through  the  gates  of  hell 

itself  we  roar. 
For  now  we  hold  the  talisman,  we've  found 

the  Golden  Fleece  again; 
Slaves  are  what  we're  after — and  we've 
shipped  a  hundred  more ! 
52 


William  Rose  Benet  53 

CHORUS 
So,  sing  a  song  of  bank-notes,  a  cabin  full  of 

rye; 
Four  and  ninety  blackbirds  for  any  man  to 

buy; 
Four  and  ninety  blackbirds  jammed  into  the 

hold— 
And  we're  the  mystic  merchants,  for  we  turn 

'em  into  gold! 

II 

We  used  to  hear  the  jackal  scream,  we  listened 

to  the  cockatoo; 
"  Arroompah "  went  the  elephant,  a-thun- 

dering  in  his  bones. 
The  Indian  girls  were  free  with  pearls  and 

stuffed  'em  in  our  pocket  too; 
The  very  sands   of  those  far  lands  were 

strewn  with  shining  stones. 
It  cost  us  time  and  money  then,  perhaps  a 

strong-armed  hint  or  two 
To  barter  with  a  Tartar  though  we  robbed 
him  all  we  could. 


54  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

But  now  some  colored  beads,  a  keg  of  rum,  a 

gaudy  print  or  two — 
And  we're  a  thousand  dollars  (and  a  nig 
ger)  to  the  good! 

CHORUS 
Four  and  ninety  blackbirds  of  every  size  and 

shade; 

Four  and  ninety  blackbirds,  safe  as  safe 
can  be. 

Boreas  shall  blow  for  us; 
Poseidon's  hand  shall  guide  us; 
Mercury  shall  chauffeur  us, 
And  Fortune  walk  beside  us. 
Apollo  too  shall  join  the  crew  and  sing  as 

loud  as  we, 

A  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  old  Slave  Trade; 
The  sport  of  all  the  Kings  that  sail  the  sea! 


EZRA  POUND 

Putting  on  a  Greek  Head-Dress,  Provengal 
Slippers,  and  an  Imagiste  Air,  Recites  : 


TIHA 


I 

COME,   my   songs,    let   us   sing  about   some 

thing  — 
It  is  time  we  were  getting  ourselves  talked 

about. 

i 

II 
[The  iron  menace  of  the  pillar-box 

is  threatening  the  virginity  of  night. 
)h,  Lars  Porsena,  let  us  be  naked  and  impu 
dent, 

as  the  first  day  of  April, 
or  Bernard  Shaw  without  a  toga. 
|  Let  us  run  up  behind  people  and  pinch  them 
in  their  too-fleshy  ankles, 
in  the  green  twilight; 

55 


56  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

Male  and  female  alike  (I  hear  that  they  read 
you,  Walt  Whitman)  — 

Eheu,  eheu  fugaccs — sic  semper — sic  transit — 
et  cetera 

Loosen  thy  chrome  girdle; 

Unveil  the  crux  ansata— oh  Ardanari-Iswari. 

Ill 

TO    A   VERY    CERTAIN    LADY 

Cybele,   Cybele,   you  have  grown  sleek  and 

damnably  patronizing. 
You  pat  me  on  the  head,  indolently, 

as  though  I  were  a  green  puppy  from 

Patagonia ; 

You  tell  me  your  love  is  platonic,  and  your 
passion 

has  cooled  to  me, 

Like  a  porcelain  pitcher  in  which  hot  water 
for  shaving 

has  been  standing  for  hours. 

Go  to — put  on  your  latest  Basque  tea-gown 
And  catch  other  tadpoles  in  your  cheap  net. 


Ezra  Pound  57 

Marry,  as  you  most  likely  will,  a  Chicago  mil 
lionaire, 

(I  can  imagine  no  worse  end  for  you) 
And  cultivate  the  Indiana  literati 

Your  heart      is      an  empty      dance-hall        : 
With  lights  blazing  and  musicians   playing 
on  mute  instruments 


SARA  TEASDALE 

Looking    as    Sapphic    as    possible,    Recites 
"A  Song." 

I  HID  my  heart  in  the  wind, 
The  cool,  young  wind  of  May — 

For  I  knew  that  my  love  would  find 
And  carry  it  away. 

Happy  I  lay — and  dumb; 

Held  in  the  sun's  warm  clasp; 
For  I  knew  that  my  love  would  come, 

And  see  it  there,  and  grasp. 

I  saw  him  stoop  and  start; 

And  then — oh  day  turned  black ! — 
My  love  picked  up  my  heart 

And  brought  it  safely  back. 


FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 

Adds  to  the  Gayety  of  Libations  by  Adapt 
ing  the   Eleventh  Ode   of  the   Fourth 
Book  of  "  Horace— 1916  Model." 

"  Est  mihi  nonum  superantis  annum.     .     ." 

SEE,  Phyllis,  I've  a  jar  of  Alban  wine, 

Made  of  the  choicest  grapes  that  one  can 

gather. 

Vintage  ?    Well,  yes— its  years  are  more  than 
nine. 

Inviting? Rather. 

And    that's   not   all   our  well-known    festive 

cheer — 

There's  ivy  in  the  yard,  and  heaps  of  pars 
ley. 

Come,  twine  some  in  your  hair — and  say,  old 
dear, 

Don't  do  it  sparsely. 

59 


60  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

The  flat's  all  ready  for  the  sacrifice; 

In  every  corner  handy  to  display  it, 
There's  silver.   .    .   Yes,  the  house  looks  extra 
nice, 

If  I  do  say  it. 

The  very  flame  is  trembling,  and  the  smoke 
Goes  whirling  upward  with  an  eager  rust 
ling; 

The  household's  overrun  with  busy  folk. 
Just  see  them  hustling! 

What's  that  ?    You  want  to  know  the  cause  of 

this? 

Why,  it's  the  birthday  of  friend  P.  Mae 
cenas  ; 

And  doubly  dear  because  the  season  is 
Sacred  to  Venus. 

Some  holiday?    Some  holiday  is  right! 

And — well,  my  Latin  heart  and  soul  are 

in  it. 

Therefore  I  hope  you'll  be  on  hand  tonight — 
Eh?.     .     .     .     Just  a  minute. 


Franklin  P.  Adams  61 

Telephus?    Pah.    He  isn't  worth  a  thought — 
If  Telly  dares  neglect  you,  dear,  why — let 

him! 

He's  nothing  but  a  giddy  good-for-nought. 
Come  and  forget  him. 

Come,  and  permit  your  grief  to  be  assuaged; 
Forsake  this  flirt  on  whom  you  have  your 

heart  set. 

Besides,  Dame  Rumor  hath  it  he's  engaged — 
"  One  of  our  smart  set." 

From  vain  desires  and  too  ambitious  dreams 
The  doom   of   Phaeton's  enough  to  scare 

you.     .     . 

This  is — ahem — my  favorite  of  themes — 
But,  dear,  I  spare  you. 

Come  then,  so  that  the  evening  may  not  lack 
Your  voice  that  makes  each  heart  a  willing 

rover ; 

And,  as  we  sing,  black  Care  will  grow  less 
black— 

Oh,  come  on  over. 


AMY  LOWELL 

Brushing   up    Her   Polyphonic   Prose,    De 
claims  Fortitude. 

ZIP  !  The  thought  of  you  tears  in  my  heart. 
I  fumble  and  start.  I  mumble  and  trip.  Zip ! 
The  night  is  a  blur.  The  yellow  wax  candles 
whimper  and  stir.  And  I,  on  my  way  to  the 
heavens,  am  hurled  to  the  jabbering  world. 
Down,  down  to  the  hideous  level  of  Brown; 
to  the  Jones,  Cohns  and  various  Malones,  I 
sink.  The  sails  of  my  spirit  sag  and  shrink. 
The  rains  of  distemper  ruffle  my  feathers  and 
put  out  my  fire.  The  Zeppelins  in  my  soul 
drag  in  the  mire;  they  shiver  and  rip.  Zip! 

In  my  neighbor's  garden  a  blue  herring 
sings.  Twee — twee.  .  .  On  the  topmost 
bough  of  a  cinnamon  tree  he  throws  his  rap 
ture  like  a  fine  spray  against  the  stony  night. 
Over  and  under  the  petulant  silver  thunder  of 
the  fountains  he  cries.  I  hear  silver  and 
62 


Amy  Lowell  63 

mauve  .  .  .  and  the  faint  sheen  of  olives. 
The  green  echoes  rise.  They  break,  these  thin- 
stemmed  glasses  of  sound;  ground  and  shat 
tered  by  the  still  skies.  The  pale  herring's 
song  is  long  with  a  slender  perfume.  A  whiff 
of  red  memories  blows  through  the  gloom  .  .  . 
and  melts  on  the  tongue.  Into  the  room  a 
young,  blond  wind  ripples  and  laughs.  She 
stammers  and  speaks  with  a  breath  that  is  full 
of  blush-roses  and  leeks.  And  the  moon,  with 
out  warning,  comes  eerily  from  the  west.  He 
staggers  wearily,  knowing  no  rest;  lurching 
out  of  a  cloud  and  singing  aloud.  He  too 
laughs;  a  crazy  laughter  breaking  through  his 
scars.  Like  a  drunken  Pierrot  spilling  the 
stars  from  his  too-long  sleeves.  The  sun 
grieves  and  looks  down  reprovingly.  And  the 
day  bursts  forth,  rejoicing  alone.  Darkness 
is  overthrown  as  the  great  wheels  turn.  In  a 
thousand  factories  the  tungstens  burn.  The 
shaftings  worry  and  moan.  The  dynamos 
drone.  .  . 
Pardon  me.  There  goes  the  'phone.  .  . 


W.  H.  DAVIES 

Rises  with  Elaborate  Simplicity  and  Sings  a 
Spring  Song  of  a  Super-Blake. 


,  THE  grass  is  green, 
}      The  sky  is  blue, 
The  bird  will  preen, 
The  cat  will  mew. 
The  fly  has  wings, 

The  child  a  toy- 
Such  little  things 
Do  give  me  joy. 

The  tree  has  leaves, 

The  road  has  miles, 
And  nothing  grieves 

Whene'er  it  smiles. 
The  crops  have  sun; 

The  streams  close  by 
Do  ramble  on, 

And  so  do  I. 
64 


W.  H.  Davies  65 

And  happy  then 

My  lot  shall  be 
While  rook  and  wren 

Build  in  the  tree; 
While  ring-doves  coo, 

And  lions  roar, 
As  long  as  two 

And  two  are  four. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

Is  Prevailed  upon  to  Read  His  Unpublished 
War-Poem  England  Speaks. 

I 

TRULY  ye  are  my  Sons;  and  I  as  your  Mother 
will  bide — 

Even  before  I  could  need  ye,  ye  sprang  full- 
armed  to  my  side. 

Your  swords  have  flashed  from  their  scab 
bards,  waiting  my  lightest  call; 

And  I  that  have  borne  and  bred  ye, — would  I 
could  bleed  for  ye  all. 

Now  we  must  meet  Death  daily,  valiantly  face 

to  face. 
Aye,   for  the  good  of  the  Peoples,  for  the 

sacred  hopes  of  the  race, 
Flesh  of  my  flesh  ye  have  answered;  waiting 

no  word  ye  arose 
From  the  home  of  the  fevered  East- wind  and 

the  haunts  of  the  Virgin  snows. 

66 


Rudyard  Kipling  67 

From  its  rock  where  Cape  Town  gazes  over 

the  herded  seas, 
From  the  gray  wild  tides  that  threaten  the 

gray  Antipodes, 
Ye  have  rushed  like  waves  from  the  waters, 

resistless  and  free  and  tall — 
And  I  am  the  Mother  that  bore  ye; — would 

I  could  bleed  for  ye  all. 

II 

Yea,  we  are  sworn  to  the  Law,  bearing  the 

strength  of  the  clan; 
We  have  made  our  peace  with  Adam-zad,  the 

bear  that  walks  like  a  man. 
Mighty  are  we,  and  our  Allies  weary  never 

nor  sleep; 
For  greater   than   guns   or  nations  are  the 

pledges  that  we  keep. 

Honor  shall  stand  behind  us,  Lust  and  Dark 
ness  shall  run — 

Yea,  and  the  years  shall  find  us  curbing  the 
savage  Hun, 


68  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

As     long     as     England's     roast-beef     shall 

strengthen  England's  tars, 
And    the    English    navies    tower    under    the 

English  stars. 

While  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  Jehovah,  fights  on 

the  English  side, 
And  the  very  skies  of  England  lift  with  an 

English  pride, 
Wrapped  in  her  fog  like  a  mantle,  and  fired 

with  English  ale, 
As  long  as  she  lists  to  her  poets,  England  can 

never  fail! 


ROBERT  CARLTON  BROWN 

Emits  a  Few  Bubbles. 

I 

CHEESES 

I  AM  the  king  of  the  rats. 
And  all  my  thoughts  are  little  mice. 
They  have  a  great  way  of  running  every 
where, 

And  a  greater  hunger. 

Nothing  will  satisfy  their  ferocious  appetite — 
Not  even  when  they  have  devoured  the  world, 
And  gnaw  on  the  thin,  gray  rind 
Of  the  mouldy  skies. 

II 

COLUMBUS   CIRCLE 

Is  this  China? 

Something  tells  me  it  must  be. 
It  may  be  the  fantastically-colored  Chop-Suey 
joint 

69 


70  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

Above  the  Child's  restaurant  at  the  corner. 

Or  it  may  be  the  lone  traffic  policeman 

Standing  like  a  blue  Buddha 

With  his  one  eternally  upraised  arm. 

Or  it  may  be  the  mass  of  amber  electric  lights 

Dropping  from  the  sign  boards, 

Like  globules  of  gold  perspiration 

From  a  Chinaman's  yellow  brow. 


JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 

Sums  up  Love,  Life,  Liberation,  Etc. 

THE  world  is  hungry  for  Beauty; 

With  eager  and  terrible  eyes 
It  strains  to  its  passionate  bosom 

Each  tawdry  and  tender  surprise. 

Common  and  liberal  and  holy, 
The  songs  of  its  spirit  ascend — 

Lavish  and  casual  and  conquering, 
Reckless  and  glad — at  the  end ! 


HARRY  GRAHAM 

Adds  to  His  Misrepresentative  Men,  a  Pic 
ture  of  J.  M.  Barrie. 

THIS  is  an  ever-changing  world 

(A  truth  that  needs  but  small  adorning), 

Our  last  night's  standards  all  are  furled, 
New  banners  bear  new  truths  this  morning. 

And,  far  from  foolish  jest,  the  fact  is 

Today's  fad  is  to-morrow's  practice. 

Shaw  rules  the  hour;  the  callow  cub 
Stirring  his  toddy  with  a  lemon  in 

Is  haunted  even  at  the  club 

By  visions  of  the  Shavian  feminine. 

The  sweeper,  with  an  accent  foreign, 

Is  (pro  and)  conning  Mrs.  Warren. 

Enough,  enough — we  gladly  turn 

And  never  for  a  moment  tarry 
Until  we  reach  that  happy  bourne 

Of  childhood  beauty  built  by  Barrie. 
72 


Harry  Graham  73 

Where  eyes  and  skies  are  always  blue, 
And  every  dream's  a  Dream-come-true. 

Under  his  spell  we  children  love 
Each  frail-spun  token  of  his  fancy; 

"  Believe  in  fairies?  "    Heavens  above 
We  all  do — save  the  man  who  can  see* 

No  beauty  in  each  simple  tune 

Of  Peter  Pan  and  Pantaloon. 

First,  second  childhood's  faith  is  his. 

Sophists  and  scholars  go  and  come,  he 
Proves  that  each  '  Little  Mary '  is 

Naught  but  a  '  Sentimental  Tummy.' 
And,  like  the  pulse  of  eager  drums, 
Our  hearts  beat  at  the  sound  of :  "  Thrums." 

*  sfs  *  *  *  *  * 

Master,  here  at  your  feet  I  lay 

A  witless  rhyme,  unskilled,  but  showing 
The  heart  of  one  who  walks  your  way 

And  hears  "  the  horns  of  elfland  blowing." 
Who  burlesques  when  he  most  reveres; 
And  winks  an  eye — to  hide  his  tears. 

*  I  think  my  italics  save  an  otherwise  hopeless  line. 
— The  Proofreader. 
Thanks. — The  Author. 


ALFRED  NOYES 
Responds  to  The  Lyric. 

I 

IN  the  Garden  of   Poems  where  each  is  a 

flower, 

The  Ode  is  an  orchid  resplendent  and  rare; 
The  Sonnet's  a  classical  lily  whose  power 

Moves  every  heart  like  a  dignified  prayer. 
The  Ballad's  a  hollyhock,  quaintest  and  queer 
est 
Of    old-fashioned    flowers    that    memory 

knows — 
But  all  these  seem  faded  when  Song's  at  its 

clearest 

And  the  heart  of  a  lyric's  the  heart  of  a 
rose. 

II 

So  give  me  the  lyric  while  Nature  is  teeming 
With  rhythm  and  rhyme;   while  our  vol 
umes  are  filled 

74 


Alfred  Noyes  75 

With  poems  of  wild  and  importunate  dream 
ing, 

And  Heaven  itself  is  uplifted  and  thrilled. 
The  universe  rocks  to  the  swing  of  a  ballad, 
But   it   warms  to   a   deeper  and  mightier 

mirth — 
Aye,  robbed  of  its  Song  the  bright  world  would 

be  pallid; 

For  the  soul  of  a  lyric's  the  soul  of  the 
earth. 

Ill 

For  Song  is  eternal;  it  rides  on  the  aeons — 
Tis  shod  with  men's  visions  and  mystical 

wings; 
Tis    April    that    quickens    the    pulse    of    its 

paeans, 
And  Passion  that  beats  in  the  heart  of  all 

things. 

You  can  fathom  the  ode,  be  it  sad  or  satiric, 
You  can  measure  the  sonnet  with  rule  and 

the  rod — 
But  no  one  can  tear  out  the  soul  from  the 

lyric; 
For  the  lilt  of  a  lyric's  the  laughter  of  God! 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

Recites  a  Ballade  by  Way  of  Retort. 

("  Anna's  the  name  of  names  for  me") 

W.  E.  Henley. 

"  ANNA  " !    Insipid  and  weak  as  gruel— 

"  Anna  " !   As  flat  as  last  night's  beer — 
Plain  as  a  bed-post  and  stiff  as  a  newel, 

Surely  there's  nothing  of  glamour  here! 

Names  by  the  hundred  enchant  the  ear, 
Stirring  the  heart  with  melodious  claims; 

Arrogant,  timid,  impulsive  and  dear — 
Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names. 

Sally  gleams  like  a  laughing  jewel, 

Bella's  jovial,  Maud's  austere; 
Rachel's  complacent,  Lydia's  cruel, 

Laura  is  classical,  Fanny  is  queer. 

Peggy  reminds  one  of  rustic  cheer, 
Lucy  of  lilies  and  lofty  aims, 

Lola  of  fancies  that  shift  and  veer — 
Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names. 
76 


Austin  Dobson  77 

Sara's  a  fire  for  all  men's  fuel, 

Mary's  a  comfort  for  all  men's  fear, 

Helen's  the  smile  that  invites  the  duel, 
Chloe's  the  breath  of  a  yesteryear, 
Margaret  somehow  evokes  the  tear, 

Lilith  the  thought  of  a  thousand  shames; 
Clara  is  cool  as  a  lake  and  clear — 

Rose,  after  all,  is  the  name  of  names. 

ENVOY 
Hannah's  for  home  and  the  'woman's  sphere  '  ; 

Vivian's  all  for  dances  and  games; 
Julia's  imperious,  Kate  is  sincere — 

Rose  (after  all)  is  the  Name  of  Names! 


WITTER  BYNNER 

Is  Prophetic  Concerning  Bo-peep  in  the  New 
World. 

BO-PEEP  was  crying.     Softly  she  complained, 
"  My  thoughts,   my  well-beloved   sheep,   are 

lost; 

And  now  I  do  not  know 
Where  I  may  find  them.     High  and  low 
I've  searched,  wind-blown  and  theory-tossed, 
But  they  are  gone/'  she  said. 
..."  I  used  to  follow  them  where'er  they  led, 
And  never  once  disdained 
To  walk  the  queer  and  twisting  paths  they 

went; 

Stumbling,  but  well  content 
I  followed,  bent 

On  learning  Life  no  matter  how  it  pained. 
Now  pulled  by  this  new  interest,  now  by  that, 
I  leaped  from  dizzy  rock  to  rock; 
Thrilled  by  the  shock 
78 


Witter  Bynner  79 

Of  being  swept  and  hurled 

Into  a  new  and  deeper-breathing  world. 

Happy  because  I  saw 

Poems  and  pains  and  people  in  the  raw; 

Glad  of  the  exquisite  feeling  that, 

Touching  the  common  things  of  earth, 

I  was  a  democrat.     .     . 

And  now,  I  see 

How  much  my  faith  was  worth. 

My  own  emotions,  frank  and  free, 

Have,  with  a  heartless,  rude  democracy, 

Deserted  me. 

I  have  learned  disillusion,  to  my  cost — 

And  so  I  weep. 

My  thoughts,  my  well-beloved  sheep, 

Are  lost." 

Then  I  replied: 

"  Bo-peep,  look  upward ;  do  not  be 

A  doubter  of  democracy. 

Be  lifted  by  a  fresher,  lowlier  pride. 

Fling  wide 

The  glorious  gates  of  your  vast  woman-soul; 


So  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards 

And  you  shall  find  each  thought, 

Nobler  and  finer-wrought, 

Eager  to  enter  once  again; 

For  you  shall  be  their  goal. 

And  then, 

Like  wanderers  on  a  homeward  track, 

Beauty  shall  bring  them  back; 

Bringing  a  thousand  tales  with  them    .     .     . 

Back  to  the  broad  expanse  and  breathless  view ; 

To  this  placid  forest's  glittering  hem, — 

They  shall  come  back  to  things  they  never 

knew; 

Visions  of  men  and  dreams  unfurled — 
Back  to  a  richer  and  more  radiant  world, — 
And  to  you. 


ATTEMPTED  AFFINITIES 


THE  POET  BETRAYED 

HEINRICH  HEINE  and  CLINTON  SCOLLARD 
Construct  a  Rondeau. 

IMMORTAL  eyes,  why  do  they  never  die? 
They  come  between  me  and  the  cheerful  sky 
And  take  the  place   of   every  sphinx-like 

star. 
They  haunt  me  always,  always;  and  they 

mar 
The  comfort  of  my  sleek  tranquility. 

In  dreams  you  lean  your  cheek  on  mine  and 

sigh; 

And  all  the  old,  caressing  words  float  by. 
They  haunt  me  always,  always;   yet  they 
are 

Immortal  lies. 

Oh  love  of  mine,  half-queen,  half -butterfly, 
You  tore  my  soul  to  hear  its  dying  cry, 

83 


84  Attempted  Affinities 

And  soiled  my  purpose  with  a  deathless 

scar. 

Go  then,  my  broken  songs,  go  near  and  far 
And  woman's  love  and  her  inconstancy 
Immortalize. 


THE    PASSIONATE    AESTHETE    TO 
HIS   LOVE 

ANDREW  LANG  and  OSCAR  WILDE  Turn  a 
Nursery  Rhyme  into  a  Rondeau  Redouble. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  wilt  thou  be  mine? 
Thou  shall  not  wash  dishes  nor  yet  feed  the 

swine, 

But  sit  on  a  cushion  and  sew  a  fine  seam, 
And    feast    upon    strawberries,    sugar    and 

cream. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  brighten  and  beam 
Joyous  assent  with  a  rapturous  sign; 

Hasten  the  Vision — quicken  the  Dream — 
Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  wilt  thou  be  mine? 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks;  come,  do  not  deem 
Thou  need'st  not  be  mindful  of  sheep  or  of 
kine; 

85 


86  Attempted  Affinities 

Thou  shalt  not  peel  onions  nor  cook  them  in 

steam, 

Thou  shalt  not  wash  dishes  nor  yet  feed  the 
swine. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  thou  shalt  recline 
Languid  and  limp  by  a  silvery  stream; 

Thou  shalt  not  grieve  though  the  world  is 

malign, 
But  sit  on  a  cushion  and  sew  a  fine  seam. 

Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  oft  as  we  dine 
I   shall   read  verses  of  mine — ream  upon 

ream; 
Whilst  thou  shalt  applaud  me  with,  "  Ah,  that 

is  fine," 

'And  feast   upon   strawberries,  sugar  and 
cream. 

Come,  while  the  days  are  all  laughter  and 

shine ; 
Come,  while  the  nights  are  all  silence  and 

gleam. 
Youth  is  a  goblet ;  Love  is  the  wine ; 

And  Life  is  a  lyric  that  has  but  one  theme : 
"  Curly-locks— Curly-locks! " 


A  MALAY  LOVE-SONG 

P.  B.  SHELLEY  and  LAURENCE  HOPE  Meet 
in  a  Pantoum. 

I  SWOON,  I  sink,  I  fall — 

Your  beauty  overpowers  me; 

I  am  a  prey  to  all 

The  yearning  that  devours  me. 

Your  beauty  overpowers  me — 

It  never  gives  me  rest; 
The  yearning  that  devours  me 

Is  loud  within  my  breast. 

It  never  gives  me  rest. 

And  tho'  a  wilder  ringing 
Is  loud  within  my  breast, 

I  have  no  heart  for  singing. 

And  tho'  a  wilder  ringing 

Comes  ever  and  again, 
I  have  no  heart  for  singing 

And  Music  is  a  pain.     .     . 
87 


88  Attempted  Affinities 

Comes  ever  and  again 
The  vision  of  your  beauty; 

And  Music  is  a  pain, 
And  Life  a  weary  duty. 

The  vision  of  your  beauty 

Arises  everywhere; 
And  Life — a  weary  duty — 

Is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Arises  everywhere 

Your  face.    Your  subtle  splendor 
Is  more  than  I  can  bear — 

Oh  love,  be  not  so  tender.     .     . 

Your  face,  your  subtle  splendor — 
I  am  a  prey  to  all.     .     . 

Oh  love,  be  not  so  tender ! 
I  swoon,  I  sink,  I  fall. 


"INTEGER  VITAE  .   .   ." 

HERRICK  and  HORACE  Rewrite  the  Latter's 
22nd  Ode,  Book  I. 

Fij;,cus,  dear  friend, 

I  prithee  lend 
An  ear  for  but  a  space, 

And  thou  shalt  see 

How  Love  may  be 
A  more  than  saving  grace. 

As  on  a  day 

I  chanced  to  stray 
Beyond  my  own  confines 

Singing,  perdie, 

Of  Lalage 
Whose  smile  no  star  outshines — 

So  'tranced  were  all 

That  heard  me  call 

On  Love,  that  (from  a  grot) 

89 


90  Attempted  Affinities 

A  wolf  who  heard 
That  tender  word, 
Listened  and  harmed  me  not. 

Thus  shielded  by 

The  magicry 
Of  Love  that  kept  me  pure, 

I  live  to  praise 

Her  wondrous  ways 
Where'er  I  may  endure. 

There's  but  one  plan: 
The  honest  man 

Wears  Vertue's  charmed  spell; 
And  free  from  vice, 
That  man  lives  twice 

Who  lives  the  one  life  well. 


TO  HORACE 

BROWNING  Supplies  the   Matter;   DOBSON 
the  Meter. 


,  master  of  song  and  the  lyric 

Satiric, 
Your  verse  is  a  storehouse  of  riches, 

The  which  is 
Far  greater  than  any  great  measure 

Of  treasure. 
How  the  lines  that  begin  "  Donee  grains  " 

Elate  us. 
The  odes  to  Maecenas  and  Phyllis, 

They  thrill  us 
With  hints  of  old  stories  and  glories  — 

0  Mores! 
No  more  dare  we  laugh  with  you,  Horace; 

A  chorus 

Of  students  and  sages  are  gleaning 
The  meaning 

That  lurks  in  your  light-hearted  phrases. 
Their  craze  is 

91 


92  Attempted  Affinities 

To  find  'neath  the  jest  in  each  column 

Some  solemn, 
Deep  thought — or  where  some  hidden  woe  lay. 

Tis  droll,  eh? 

How  they  treat  you  in  Learning's  dim  halls; 

so 

You're  also 
(You,  Horace — you  drainer  of  Massic) 

A  classic! 

We  must  place,  then,  your  book  with  those 
late  ones, 

"  The  Great  Ones," 
Whose  volumes  lie,  more  than  respected, — 

Neglected. 
So  farewell — (and  what  irony  plans  it!) 

Sic  transit — 


LIGHT-VERSE  LILITH 

As   A.    C.  SWINBURNE    and    F.    LOCKER- 
LAMPSON  Might  Have  Collaborated. 

WHAT  artist  I  wonder  could  draw  you; 

What  painter  could  hope  to  portray 
The  grace  that  was  yours  when  I  saw  you 

Alone  at  the  end  of  the  day. 
There  was  love  in  the  lines  of  your  bodice, 

There  was  magic  in  many  a  fold; 
And  your  glance  had  the  glow  of  a  goddess, 
My  Lady  of  Gold. 

You  were  reading  some  book  of  the  hour; 

And,  skimming  the  pages  in  haste, 
You  paused  to  adjust  a  white  flower 

That  had  dropped  from  the  ones  at  your 

waist. 
Your  cheeks  were  the  confident  color 

That  Coty  or  D'Orsay  supplies; 
And  the  pearls  and  the  diamonds  were  duller 
Than  ever  your  eyes. 

93 


94  Attempted  Affinities 

Your  blushes  were  blissful  and  blameless, 

A  mingling  of  lilies  and  fire — 
Yet  I  knew  you  at  once  for  a  shameless 

And  impotent  mock  of  desire. 
For  your  lips  were  revealed  when  I  saw  you 

They  were  cruel  and  careless  and  cold — 
And  I  wonder  what  artist  could  draw  you, 
My  Lady  of  Gold. 


FAERIES 

JOHN  KEATS  and  MADISON  CAWEIN  Dis 
cover  Them  Together. 

I  HAVE  heard  music  as  of  tiny  strings 

Fashioned   of   corn-silk,   plucked  by  silver 

hands; 

I  have  heard  music;  as  if  murmurous  wings 
Stirred  in  the  air  to  rouse  the  elfin  bands. 
Pallid     preludings     where     the     rose-tree 
stands — 

And  a  voice  that  sings.     .     . 

A  voice  that  sings  so  low,  that  did  not  you 

Know  of  the  forest  spirits,  you  would  think, 
It   was    a   wind    that   passed    the   woodland 
through ; 

And  that,  among  the  leaves,  the  lamps  that 
wink 

Are  naught  but   fireflies;   that  no   faeries 
drink 

The  midnight  dew. 

95 


96  Attempted  Affinities 

Lilies,  whose  lantern-light  glows  on  the  green, 
Bend  'neath  the  pressure  of  their  tinkling 

feet; 

Daisies  and  daffodils  may  now  be  seen 
Gently  to  bow  and  sway  as  if  to  greet, 
And  loose  a  petaled  tribute  as  were  meet 
A  faery  queen. 


And   see,   between  the  boughs,   a  breathless 

glance 
Of   frisking  elves  that  frolic  through  the 

night ! 
Glitter  of  blade  and  shimmering  sword  and 

lance; 

Sparkle  of  lucent  jewels,  so  richly  bright, 
One   might   mistake    for   flickering   moon 
beam  light 

The  faeries'  dance. 

Nearby,  behind  a  soft  and  cloudy  hill, 
The    faery-lovers    from    the    dance    have 
strayed; 


Keats  and  Cawein  97 

The  winds  come  here  on  tip-toe  and  they  thrill 
With  echoes  of  an  elfin  serenade.     .     . 
There  is  a  human  footstep  in  the  glade — 
And  all  is  still.     .     . 

I  have  heard  music — bluebells  ringing  clear, 

And  ever  faint  the  veery's  rising  song. 
I  have  heard  faery  voices,  strangely  near, 
Coaxing    the    sleepy    flowers    to    join    the 

throng.     .     . 

A  lush  and  fragile  singing  that  I  long 
Once  more  to  hear. 


PESSIMISM  IN  THE  SLUMS 

W.  E.  HENLEY  and  FRANCOIS  VILLON  Find 
a  Few  Things  in  Common. 

SAY,  you  there,  guzzling  from  your  dinky  pail, 

Pipe  to  my  lay,  and  if  it  don't  offend 
Cut  out  the  booze  a  minute;  there's  a  tale 
Some  gringo-poet-dub  once  tried  to  send 
Across  the  boards.     D'ye  savvy,   compre 
hend? 
A   pote  what   wrote   real   man-talk — on  the 

dead — 
One  who  could  put  your  think-tank  on  the 

bend  ; 

And,  with  a  lot  of  other  guff,  he  said: 
"  Life  hands  us  all  a  lemon  in  the  end/' 

He  says,  says  he :  "  The  joys  of  life  are  stale; 
Punk,  on  the  fritz; — you  never  can  depend 
98 


Henley  and  Villon  99 

On  nothing,  'cept,  of  course,  the  county  jail — 
That's   the  caboose  where   every  vag  can 

spend 
His  month   or  more."     And  so  he  says: 

"  Extend- 
Cut  loose,  vamoose;  go  hit  the  trail  instead. 

For  if  you  think  your  luck  is  on  the  mend, 
Remember,  though  you've  found  an  easy  bed, 
'  Life  hands  us  all  a  lemon  in  the  end/  " 

Drive  it  in,  cull,  it's  sharp  as  any  nail; 

Stronger    than    Durham    of    the    toughest 

blend; 
The  guy  that  said :     "  There's  no  such  word 

as  fail " 
Must  have  seen  things  that  make  a  bloke 

descend 

From  off  the  sprinkling-cart.  Say,  why  pre 
tend 
Things  can  be  rosy  when  you're  underfed? 

No  one  returns  the  money  that  you  lend — 
No  one  gives  nothing;  not  a  sou,  a  shred.    .    . 
Life  hands  us  all  a  lemon  in  the  end. 


ioo  Attempted  Affinities 

ENVOY 
Life? — It's  a  pair  of  dice  that's  plugged  with 

lead; 
A  crooked  game  where  Death's  the  dealer's 

friend. 

And  when  we  cash  our  chips  in  for  the  red 
Life  hands  us  all  a  lemon  in  the  end ! 


LENORE  LIBIDINA 

E.  A.  POE  and  THE  PRE-RAPHAELITES  Join 
Hands. 

HE  yearned  to  her  with  every  call  and  fresh 

Lure  of  her  wanton  flesh. 
"  Let  Death  withhold  his  hands  till  I  have 

been 

Held  in  your  fluent  hair  as  in  a  mesh; 
Unpenitent  and  glad,  exulting  in 

Some  strange  and  splendid  sin! 

"  Give  me  your  lips  again,  your  hands,  your 
frail 

Beauty,  perverse  and  pale; 
Your  eyes  that  tremble  like  a  startled  wren. 
Here  is  my  solace;  here  all  wisdoms  fail; 
Here  is  more  strength  than  in  a  world  of 
men — 

Your  lips.  .  .     again — again!  .  ." 


IO2  Attempted  Affinities 

Then,  like  a  wave,  the  madness  leaped  and 
died; 

Passion  grew  hollow-eyed. 
Her  voice   no   longer   swayed;    the   music 

thinned.     .     . 

And  as,  with  sickening  soul,  he  turned  aside, 
The  moon,  a  goblin  riding  on  the  wind, 

Peered     through     the     blinds— and 
grinned. 


"THE  KISS  IN  THE  CUP" 

BEN  JONSON  and  HARRY  B.  SMITH  Concoct 

the   Annual  Drinking  Song  for   the 

Annual  Casino  '  Comic  '-Opera. 

I 

OH  some  may  quaff  their  tankards  and  laugh 

With  many  a  flowery  toast. 
They  will  sing  of  pale  or  nut-brown  ale 

Or  the  draught  they  love  the  most. 
But  I  despise  such  mirth,  for  I  prize 

A  sweeter  and  headier  wine — 
So  drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine. 

REFRAIN 

When  you  drink  (Clink-clink) 
Then  I  think   (Clink-clink) 
That  I  might  of  Jove's  nectar  sup; 
Don't  deny  (Hi-hi) 
When  I  sigh  (Fill  high!) 
Won't  you  leave — just  a  kiss — in  the  cup! 
103 


104  Attempted  Affinities 

II 

Who  can  control  the  thirst  of  the  soul — 

And,  dear,  that  plight  is  mine. 
A  thirst  that  gnaws  from  such  a  cause 

Must  have  a  drink  divine. 
So  while  my  glass  is  raised,  alas, 

My  heart  is  offered  up. 

And  there  you  may  sip  with  your  eyes  and 
your  lip, 

If  you'll  leave  just  a  kiss  in  the  cup. 

REFRAIN 

When  you  drink  (Clink-clink) 
Then  I  think  (Clink-clink) 
Et  cetera    .    .    .    ad  lib.,  ad  infin.    .    . 


PIERIAN  HANDSPRINGS 


LIFE'S  ASPIRATION 

A  More-than-Symbolic  Sonnet  for  a   Fron 
tispiece  of  the  Same  Sort  by 
GEORGE  WOLFE  PLANK. 

URGED  by  the  peacocks  of  our  vanity 
Up  the  frail  tree  of  Life  we  climb  and  grope; 
About  our  heads  the  tragic  branches  slope, 
Heavy  with  Time  and  xanthic  mystery. 
Beyond,  the  brooding  bird  of  Fate  we  see 
Viewing  the  world  with  eyes  forever  ope'. 
And  lured  by  all  the  phantom  fruits  of  Hope, 
We  cling  in  anguish  to  this  fragile  tree. 

O  louring  skies !    O  clouds,  that  point  in  scorn 
With  the  lean  fingers  of  a  wrinkled  wrath ! 
O  dedal  moon,  that  rears  its  ghostly  horn ! 
O  secret  stars  athwart  the  cosmic  path! 
Shall  we  attain  the  glory  of  the  Morn — 
Or  sink  in  some  abysmal  Aftermath! 


107 


THE  DRAMA  OF  SUMMER 

ACT  ONE  :  A  rocky  stretch  of  land. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE:    Two  women, 
Who,  hand  in  hand,  upon  the  sand, 

Learn  of  a  wisdom  they  are  dim  in. 
About  them  lies  a  world  of  dreams, 

And,  smiling  with  the  summer  weather, 
The  younger  breathes,  "  You  baste  the  seams, 

And  tack  the  plaits  and  gores  together." 

ACT  Two :   The  actors  are  the  same. 

THE  SCENE:  A  wood  of  pines  and  birches; 
A  wood  whose  beauties  put  to  shame 

The  cynic  soul  that  doubts  and  searches.   .  . 
The  fair  one's  face  blooms  like  a  flower, 

And,  with  a  sigh  intensely  utter, 
She  hints,  "  I  let  it  boil  an  hour, 

Then  add  about  a  pound  of  butter.5* 

108 


The  Drama  of  Summer  109 

ACT  THREE  :   A  line  of  moonlit  hills — 

Enchantment  sweeps  the  singing  river; 
And  while  a  love-sick  linnet  thrills, 

They  murmur — and  their  voices  quiver: 
"  I  told  her  she  could  pack  and  go —  " 

"You   mean   that   she"— "  My  dear,    I'm 

certain — 
She  copied  all  my  hats — and  slow! " 

"  Well,  servants  will  be  servants." 

(CURTAIN) 


IT   WAS   FIRST   TO    FADE 
AWAY  " 


FOR  years  I've  gnashed  my  metaphoric 

Bicuspids  at  the  rhapsodies 
When  poets  praised,  in  rhyme  caloric, 

Myrtilla,  Chloe,  Heloise. 
Unmoved  by  Moore's  or  Shelley's  rapture, 

'Spite  all  these  songs,  I  was  a  dumb  one  — 
Though  I,  too,  longed  and  yearned  to  capture 

A  not  ungracious  some  one. 

And  now  —  oh  dream  come  true  —  I've   seen 
her; 

Not  in  a  poem,  but  a  dress; 
Which,  with  her  classical  demeanor, 

Is  something  verse  cannot  express. 
Her  window  faces  mine,  and  nightly 

My  far  from  bashful  eyes  behold  her.     .     . 
She  has  an  arm  that's  not  unsightly, 

A  neck  and  such  a  shoulder  ! 
no 


" — But  It  Was  First  to  Fade  Away  "      in 

And  yet  when  my  inamorata 

Begins  to  practice  Grieg,  and  when 

From  her  medulla  oblongata 
Aida's  sorrows  sound  again, 

No  longer  does  her  beauty  blind  me 

For,  though  she's  fair  as  day  a-dawning, 

My  faithful  wife  comes  up  behind  me, 

And  then — lets  down  the  awning. 


THE   SEASON'S  ROUND,   OR  FROM 
COURT  TO  COURT 

(A  composite  of  twenty-nine  Vers  de  Societe 
with  none  of  the  approved  poetic  platitudes 
omitted. ) 

BIRDS  in  the  tree     ...     a   flower-decked 

lea.     .     . 
Love    shoots    his    shaft;    the    dart    takes 

wing.     .     . 

A  man    ...    a  maiden  fancy-free.    .    . 

— 'Tis  Spring. 

A  beach  ...   a  moon  .    .    .   and  none  too 

soon 

The  maid  with  Cupid's  last  newcomer.    .    . 
A  balmy  night    .     .     .    ideal  June.    .     . 

— 'Tis  Summer. 

112 


The  Seasons  Round  113 

A  church   ...   a  bright  October  night.    .  . 

A  Wedding  March  ...  a  floral  hall.   .  . 

A  ring  .    .    .   the  maid  in  dazzling  white.    .  . 

-Tis  Fall. 

A  scene  ...   a  short  and  hot  retort.   .    . 

A  column  in  "  The  Nev/port  Printer  ".    .    . 
A  bleak  day  and  a  crowded  court.     .     . 

—Tis  Winter. 


INSCRUTABILIA 

THE  POET  INDITES: 
"  Who  have  shunned  the  languid  fountains 

Where  the  perfumed  pleasures  arc? 
Who  have  dared  to  climb  the  mountains — 

Braved  the  heights  to  pluck  a  star? 
Who  of  those  who  know  the  dangers 

Drive  their  ship  across  the  barf 

"  We  have  spanned  the  star-strewn  reaches, 
We  have  bridged  the  dread  abyss — 

All  the  ghastly  corpse-lined  beaches 
Hold  no  triumph  such  as  this. 

We  have  robbed  Time  of  its  terrors; 
We  have  answered  Death's  cold  kiss.'9 


THE  READERS  BESEECH  I 

Tell  us,  poet,  tell  us  truly 

Of  that  vague  and  shrouded  land 
114 


Inscrutabilia  115 

Which  you  write  of  in  your  newly- 
Published  poem,  gray  and  grand — 

For  the  message  still  eludes  us, 
Tho'  we  seem  to  understand. 

THE  POET  RESPONDS  : 

Would  you  have  your  stanzas  quoted? 

Would  you  win  such  fame  as  mine? 
Know  then,  verse  like  this  the  noted 

Magazines  will  not  decline; 
Thoughts  like  the  above  are  precious — 

Say,  at  fifty  cents  a  line. 


HAMMOCK  LITERATURE 

LADY  who  art  strangely  versed  in 

Wit  and  knowledge, 
You,  whose  rank  was  ever  first  in 

School  and  college, 
Tell  me,  where  can  all  your  saner 

Thoughts  be  leading? 
What — to  put  it  even  plainer — 

Are  you  reading? 

"  Dickens,  pah,  he's  almost  drivel," 

Says  this  censor; 
"  Shaw,  he's  really  too  uncivil; 

As  for  Spencer, 
Not  a  passing  thrill  of  pleasure 

He'll  afford  me; 
Even  in  an  hour  of  leisure 

Pater  bored  me." 

116 


Hammock  Literature  117 

Yet  that  one  book  o'er  which  for  a 

Week  you're  frowning; 
Is  it  Whitman,  Heine,  or  a 

'  Guide  to  Browning  '  ? 
"If  you  must  know  "  (then  she  walks  by, 

Book  before  her;) 
"  It  is  '  Cosy  Kitchen  Talks  by 

Mrs.  Rorer.'  " 


RONDEAU 

[To,  For,  and  By  Request  of  G.  S.  K.] 

You  bid  me  write,  and  so  this  string 
Of  aimless  rhymes  is  given  wing. 

These  verses,  far  from  recondite, 

Are  neither  elegant  nor  light; 
They  have  no  beauty,  point,  nor  sting. 

And  yet,  somehow,  they  seem  to  sing 
With  quite  an  eerie  sort  of  swing — 
Perhaps  it  is  because  tonight 

You  bid  me  write. 

Now  I  could  sing  of  Wagner's  "  Ring," 
Of  "  Shoes  "  or  "  Ships  "  or  even  "  Spring;  " 
Of      "Summer's      Blessing,"      "  Winter's 

Blight;  " 
Of    "Shakespeare,"    "Love,"    or    "Souls 

Contrite —  " 
What  ?  Would  I  sing  of  anything 

You  bid  me?     Right! 
1x8 


FRUSTRATE 

[After  an  Evening  with  Browning,  Mase- 
field,  Lewis  Carroll  and  Gertrude  Stein.] 

I  TURNED  to  the  parlor  in  panic 

And  blurted  out,  "  What  must  you  think?  " 
She  rippled,  "  Then  let  me  the  canick — 
in  clink!" 

I  soared  to  my  feet;  it  was  still  dim.     . 

The  moon,  like  an  opal  in  fright, 
Leaned  over  and  whispered,  "  I  killed  him 
Last  night." 

Not  an  hour  to  lose;  I  would  save  her — 

I  fastened  my  spurs  in  the  air 
With  the  scent  of  the  twilight  I  gave  her 
To  wear. 

And  I  thought,  with  a  shriek,  of  how  Friday 

Would  burst  into  corduroy  pants — 
And  I  drove  like  a  fiend,  and  I  cried  "  Day, 
Advance ! " 
119 


I2O  Pierian  Handsprings 

The  wind  smacked  its  lips,  "  Here's  a  nice 

treat." 

The  sea  was  a  forest  of  flame.     .     . 
And  so  to  the  billowy  Bye  Street 
I  came. 

The  stars  at  my  shoulder  were  baying; 
I  surged  through  a  hole  i'  the  gate ; 
And  I  knew  that  the  Bishop  was  saying, 

"  Too  late." 
****** 

They  tell  me  that  no  one  believed  me; 
I  never  was  asked  to  the  feast.     .     . 
My  dears,  'twas  the  cabby  deceived  me — 
The  beast! 


NOCTURNE 

I  CANNOT  read,  I  cannot  rest; 

I  only  hear  the  mournful  Muse. 
A  wan  moon  staggers  in  the  West. 
I  cannot  read,  I  cannot  rest. 
Below,  a  lonely  feline  pest 

Makes  the  night  loud  with  amorous  views. 
I  cannot  read — I  cannot  rest! 

I  only  hear  the  mournful  mews. 


121 


"An  Authentic  Original  Voice  in  Literature." — The  Atlantic 
Monthly. 

ROBERT    FROST 

The  New  American  Poet 

:         NORTH    OF    BOSTON 

Alice  Brown: 

"Mr.  Frost  has  done  truer  work  about  New  England  than  any 
body — except  Miss  Wilkins." 

New  York  Evening  Sun: 

"The  poet  had  the  insight  to  trust  the  people  with  the  book  of 
the  people  and  the  people  replied  'Man,  what  is  your  name?' 
...  He  forsakes  utterly  the  claptrap  of  pastoral  song,  classi 
cal  or  modern.  .  .  His  is  soil  stuff,  not  mock  bucolics." 

Boston  Transcript: 

"The  first  poet  for  half  a  century  to  express  New  England 
life  completely  with  a  fresh,  original  and  appealing  way  of  his 
own." 

Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle: 

"The  more  you  read  the  more  you  are  held,  and  when  you 
return  a  few  days  later  to  look  up  some  passage  that  has 
followed  you  about,  the  better  you  find  the  meat  under  the 
simple  unpretentious  form.  The  London  Times  caught  that 
quality  when  it  said:  'Poetry  burns  up  out  of  it,  as  when  a 
faint  wind  breathes  upon  smouldering  embers.'  .  .  That  is 
precisely  the  effect.  .  ." 

A   BOY'S  WILL  Mr.  Frost's  First  Volume  of  Poetry 

The  Academy  (London): 

"We  have  read  every  line  with  that  amazement  and  delight 
which  are  too  seldom  evoked  by  books  of  modern  verse." 

NORTH  OF  BOSTON.  Cloth.    $1.25  net, 

NORTH  OF  BOSTON.  Leather.    $2.00  net. 

A  BOY'S  WILL.  Cloth.    75  cents  net. 


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Compiled  by  BURTON  E.  STEVENSON 

Collects  the  best  short  poetry  of  the  English  language-— not 
only  the  poetry  everybody  says  is  good,  but  also  the  verses  that 
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The  poems  as  arranged  by  subject,  and  the  classification  is 
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